Torchwood: Tokyo A GoGo! Life is peaches R&R!
by Tokyo Toby
Summary: Post 456 incident, Toshiko is still alive and kicking *literally* in the new remodeled Torchwood but without the indomitable Captain Jack, lovelorn Ianto and Gwen VERY pregnant, how will her and Lois Habiba contend with the new threats to the human race?
1. Chapter 1

**TORCHWOOD **

**Tokyo A Go-Go! **

**By Toby A. Craddock **

**ONE **

**TOSHIKO **

Time: 22:38

Date: Thursday 12th November 2009

Locale: Torchwood-Three 'The Hub', under the Roald Dahl Plass, Cardiff, Wales.

Status: Clocking Off?

Attire: All Saints leather jacket, Acne skinny grey jeans, Belstaff motorcycle boots, aubergine Mulberry messenger, Alexander McQueen silk scarf.

Toshiko Sato brushed her chestnut, choppy fringe out of her almond eyes with the side of her hand – she was exhausted. As she had been everyday, ever since the 456 incident. With Gwen four months pregnant, Jack god knows where and poor Ianto no longer with them she had to take more and more responsibility within Torchwood-Three at the new remodelled Hub. She was spending fewer hours huddled behind her computer monitor, separated from the action by a headset she was often at the frontline Weevil spray in hand. After the world's children's closest brush with extra-terrestrial life and Torchwood had demonstrated their prowess in combating such threats their workload had tripled despite them having to remodel the remnants of the Hub and bringing Ianto's replacement – the indomitable Lois Habiba – up to speed.

In response to Agent Johnson's crushing blow to the Hub via an explosive transplanted _within _Captain Jack Harkness the Hub had been built deeper into the Welsh rock under Cardiff Bay, reinforced with both a titanium shell and several more security protocols needed to pass if you were to enter – or exit. The redesigned lift was now operational functioning much as the last one did but now entry was only granted through a series of retina and fingerprint scans as well as a test which measured both bone density and the distance between both cheekbones to register who was trying to gain access to Torchwood at a nearby ATM. The cave like ambience was now more so but with an introduction of a cylindrical bullpen made entirely of glass for conferences and emergency tactical strategies at the centre of the Hub, Torchwood-Three was now at the cutting edge of technological advances. They now had a gym too which Gwen had recently turned into an ante-natal class for both her and Rhys but Tosh still had access to the firing range, morgue and armoury. The open plan work ethic was still just as effective and efficient with bare light bulbs highlighting each workstation and the mesh of wires was still ever present hooking the Hub up to every government source for the latest global developments. The bedazzling phospherence of every plasma screen, computer monitor and LCD display helped transform the exposed rock into a cave-like sanctuary which despite its proximity to ground level managed to be spectacularly cosy and warm.

Tosh removed her angular glasses that complemented her delicate, fox-like features – it was time to call it a night. Her chestnut eyes were immune to her pleading for another 10 minutes of sight; the Weevil detector's kinks would have to be fine tuned another day. Scooping up her phone, laptop, keys and .mp3 player which usually coerced her into the night with an array of indie rock but tonight had decided to splutter to a halt alongside her eyes she looked at the array of digital clocks perfectly lining the ragged rock wall – another late night bites the dust. The items were unceremoniously and very un-Tosh like tossed into her Mulberry messenger which usually faced the brunt of working life, she fished out the keys to her imported Nissan GTR – one of the only perks of working for an elite, black ops government agency dedicated in combating all threats to the existence of the human race were the pay cheques. Her Belstaff motorcycle boots slapped the cold, raw concrete as Toshiko sauntered over to the lift – her fitted leather jacket and Swedish cigarette jeans accentuating her petite proportions.

As her almond eyes were busy glazing over she tried to find an outline of Lois, who was also usually beavering away on case files or the numerous reports that littered her in tray every morning until night fell. Lois had gone and Tosh could not blame her. Knocking off the lights one by one until all that was left were the arabesque screensavers left suspended in the inky blackness like far off galaxies each harbouring secrets. Tosh hastily activated the lift and said a silent goodbye to her career as she did every night while the lift accelerating her back to the solitude of her civilisation that hadn't missed her – nor ever would.

She arrived unceremoniously before the familiar fountain she now called home seemingly more than her minimalist apartment she kept nearby. The Roald Dahl Plass was empty and nobody saw her arrived but even if it had been full nobody would have either thanks to the installed perception filter which kept the public away from Torchwood and ironically safer. Most Torchwood agents didn't die of natural causes, Ianto Jones and Toshiko's former lover Owen Harper chief among them, thinking about Owen gave Tosh that familiar twinge of guilt that often tainted her day to day life; she had survived a gunshot wound whereas Owen had perished from his. Despite being a liberal Buddhist, Tosh lived her life side by side with karma – _life throws at you problems to both solve and face and depending on how you solve them determines your fate_, she often heckled herself. Toshiko Sato was no philosopher and no alchemist but she knew that her life had indefinitely changed that fateful night and although after two years of solitude she was beginning to come around to the idea of sharing her life with someone else again she would never return to that naïve and jaded young woman she once was.

Inexplicably finding herself in the driver's seat of her car, Tosh realised how tired she was and after retelling her current status both emotionally and physically to herself for the umpteenth time over the past year she was in no mood for the drink she had promised Lois earlier.

_Speak of the devil, _mused Tosh as her Japanese, hand built sports car that oozed with power and decisiveness (qualities she had once aspirated) roared to life and automatically booted up the Torchwood software. After the 456 incident Tosh had installed the software once contained to the SUV into her car and Lois' rather mundane German saloon; she had asked Gwen who politely declined as Rhys would have had none of it in 'her condition' – she was eager to have Tosh upload a more simplified version into her PDA however.

The LCD display flashed HABIBA, LOIS -3 MISSED CALLS. The agent sighed, she really was tempted to ignore Lois' sincere attempts in getting her out on the town once in a while and as she was about to hit decline on the touch screen interface with a pumpkin lacquered nail when from the corner of her eye she noticed the Rift Activity interface glowing red next to her speedometer and gunned the 507hp engine before hitting the glowing green icon of CALL BACK. Toshiko Sato's adrenaline reserve flooded back into her system as if her brain knew not to waste in on laborious software work this unusually quiet evening. It seemed as though her body had evolved parallel to Torchwood as she screeched towards the car park's exit and into the night ahead…

After a very professional racing right turn into oncoming traffic, to the soundtrack of cursing and swearing, Tosh barely had the time to observe the undulating waves of Rift activity before Lois hastily picked up the phone and flickered into view on the GTR's LCD display.

"Tosh?" Lois called out, the GPS said that the two vehicles were only half a mile apart but the weakness in Lois' usually confident tone made the distance seem much further.

"Lois, I'm SO sorry about missing that drink of ours," She winced, she had said that so often in the previous months, "but there's some rather bizarre Rift activity and I'm en route now. Are you okay?" her eyebrows furrowed.

"I've been trying to c-c-c-all you," Lois stammered, eager to communicate, "I'm in trouble."

"At a bar? Have you been mugged?!" Tosh enquired like a concerned sibling, she felt so selfish leaving Lois to go out drinking by alone.

"Not exactly," Tosh noticed Lois steadying her resolve and managed to take her eyes off the traffic and tried to see where Lois was exactly. "The Rift Activity. I'm at the centre of it." Her colleague's braided bob stuck heavily to her temples and Tosh's eyes widened as she realised how in danger Lois could be.

"Tell me what do you see, Lois." She made sure to enunciate the words clearly so that Lois could understand before swerving out of the way of some drunks meandering their way out of one of Cardiff's numerous pubs that the up until recently the Torchwood-Three team usually accommodated every Friday, and sometimes Monday, night.

"W-Weevils," she stuttered.

"How many, Lois?" asked Tosh, noticing the plural form while simultaneously calculating the fastest route to Lois' current location?

"2 and they're advancing. They cornered me coming out of the off-licence on the way home."

"Off-License?" asked a puzzled Tosh as she manoeuvred her way up a one-way street, which was thankfully deserted, at 77mph.

"You looked so busy with your work and I was far too tired for a drink tonight. I just wanted to grab a bottle of wine and have a bath, but the unmistakable shuffle and stench tipped me off and I dashed into my car. I thought I had lost them but they caught up to me…" she trailed off the line.

"LOIS?! LOIS?!" Tosh shrieked into the speakers, anybody who could manage to see the woman in the speeding car would have wondered what she was doing.

"Oh God…" Lois whimpered, "They've seen me."

"Lois put your lights on full and hit that horn." She replied methodically and reassuringly the horn was amplified through the GTR's sound system but Tosh didn't care as she followed the GPS's precise instructions – a hairpin bend left to King George Street, a small alley which thankfully had an off license opposite. Toshiko had found Lois just in time.

Gently squeezing the handbrake the Japanese muscle car careered left and gave Tosh finally a proper idea what was going on. The long sports car blocked off the only entrance to the gloomy alley and if it wasn't for the two women's headlamps you couldn't have seen past your arm. Penned in by office blocks and clearly only used for deliveries, Lois had backed her car right up to the rear of the alley and up to the large, Lorry level shutter doors. The loping figures of the two Weevils dressed in rags and reeking of the sewers were clearly visible.

Whipping her punky bob out of her eyes Toshiko Sato grabbed her Heckler & Koch USP handgun from her Mulberry bag and from the glove box a can of Weevil spray to hopefully delay and disorientate them away from Lois – it may have only be as large as a perfume atomizer and as non-descript as a chrome cylinder but it was the most useful weapon Torchwood utilised against the Weevils. They looked as if they were deformed skinheads, with buckteeth and red eyes but it was their stench, which made them notorious – they prowled the sewers, eating faeces and only surfaced for the promise of attacking vulnerable humans. She declined her Torchwood ID and left it in the bottom of her handbag, Weevils communicated with grunts and not being human, they had no rights to be read on this planet. Two pairs of cuffs were yanked also from the glove box and she could only hope that Gwen hadn't gone to bed yet, pregnant or not, she would be pleased to help.

Left-handed Toshiko slammed the charcoal grey car door closed and could just make out and appreciative smile from the petrified Lois who had ceased on the horn. In her left hand she raised the gun, its gleaming chrome body catching the dilapidated amber from the streetlights. Feet shoulder width apart, right elbow relaxed, she took in a deep breath which she planned to release half of when she fired. Casually she cocked the gun and both Weevils ambled round to look at their next meal – or so they thought.

**BANG**. The shot tore through the nearest Weevil's shoulder and it roared in pain, looking at it's friend in disdain the other Weevil left toying with Lois' windscreen wipers and began a half gallop towards Tosh's shooting position; it's rags buffeting in the wind and its meaty arms bellowing out before it. **BANG BANG BANG**. The three consecutive shots all hit the remaining Weevil in its pronounced torso, a perfect triangular pattern – consistent with both Torchwood and SAS training. Toshiko was unusually compassionate for a Torchwood agent and felt sorrowed at the almost imminent death of the Weevil – what made her different to Gray? The man who tried to murder both her and succeeded in murdering Owen, her Owen. She decided to secure some handcuffs on the revolting beast just as a precaution, just as the second cuff clicked shut Toshiko was interrupted by the horn of Lois' saloon – now adorned with the identifiable scratch marks of a Weevil.

Looking towards Lois to ensure she was OK Tosh found her view obscured by the original Weevil, its left arm limp, lumbering towards her. With her HK pistol, safety lock on, inside her fitted leather jacket this would have to be resolved hand to hand. Luckily for Lois, after Owen's death Tosh had vowed never to be rescued or to depend heavily on her team again and as such she poured herself into the study of Aiki Ju-Jutsu; an ancient, Japanese martial art dedicated to empowering the weaker combatant through a use of holds, locks and grapples over sheer brute force – perfect for Sato-ojou-sama.

Rising to face her attacker, Tosh saw the heave in the Weevil's right arm before even a fist had been clenched and grabbed it with her right arm as it approached her. The Weevil writhed and Tosh knew she had to act quickly as she couldn't take on a Weevil solely head to head. Using her free left arm she pirouetted around the side of the Weevil and connected her left elbow with its right hand temple. It howled in pain. She released her grip on its arm and found herself facing its writhing back, quickly, almost automatically, she hammered one of her Belstaff boots into the back of its left knee cap. With a haemorrhaging shoulder, a sore wrist, throbbing temple and now with its legs buckling Toshiko spun on her heel and kicked the Weevil in the shoulder she had previously shot with a wide arc of her leg, the momentum of the spin knocked the Weevil onto it's back and Toshiko unloaded half a can of spray in its face before vowing to take on some new recruits like Jack had employed her.


	2. Chapter 2

**TORCHWOOD **

**Tokyo A Go-Go! **

**By Toby A. Craddock**

**TWO **

**TOBY **

Time: 14:02

Date: Sunday 15th November 2009

Locale: Wagamama Oxford, 8 Market Street, Oxford, England.

Status: Blackmail with your yaki soba, sir?

Attire: Superdry leather bomber jacket, Superdry teal rugby shirt, Topman dungarees, Paul Smith Canvas Messenger, Oliver Sweeney limited edition trainers.

Dusting off Winter's first flakes off his Paul Smith messenger, Toby Conran looked up to see the entire branch of Wagamama gawping at his wiry self. The bag was limited edition and he had purchased in it in spite of his monstrous and omni-luminous student loan debts, which therefore justified Toby's both calculated and delicate actions in removing each snowflake one by one. _They may all be unique but, _the tall, blonde student mused silently to himself, _God forbid, that even one of these natural 'wonders' should permanently stain the bag that had been designed by Paul Smith himself to celebrate Selfridges' one hundredth birthday_. Like a snowflake mercenary, and from behind his very large and angular glasses, he had finally rid the infamous Paul Smith mini of its final snowflake – it could now stand proudly before the Selfridges on Oxford Street, London on the canvas – despite the stares and stifled laughed surrounding him in the trendy and cavernous Wagamama noodle bar.

Casually reclining against the 'Please Wait Her To Be Seated' sign, courteously sited just beyond the front doors, he ruffled his asymmetric blonde crop and surveyed the restaurant with his wide, aquamarine eyes. He was practically a regular, after all, no one else came in to order take out so often and actually was on first name terms with half the waiting staff and the head chef – why were they laughing at him? Toby was studying German Law at the world-renowned institution that was Oxford University; he therefore enjoyed being the centre of attention and often lost himself in the vast library of St. Anne's Collage but not in a vast tome but in the romanticised dreams of conquering the courtroom. However, he did not find it amusing to be the butt of a joke, which he wasn't let in on, it was like his first year of secondary school – again.

His thoughts were pleasantly interrupted by a gust of icy wind that had started, rather mischievously, creating tiny, tendrils of whirring powder around every footprint from the end of the street to the other. Toby's dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose reddened as the cold secured its chilling grasp in the hallway of the inviting and cosy restaurant. He loved Winter, it could have been the opportunity and necessity to purchase and wear more clothes, drink more mulled wine and curl up besides more behemoth type fires or maybe it was the only time of year his tall and almost lanky frame could actually partake in some part of the sporting world – skiing. Probably not. At least he didn't have to put on the dreaded SPF 50 sun cream.

Shifting his gaze from the revellers and to what had come inside, he was pleasantly surprised to see his takeout – 2 Asahi beers, 2 peach iced teas, 1 yaki soba, 1 grilled teriyaki asparagus, 1 tofu udon and last but by no means least, his personal favourite, duck gyoza. However, he was more pleased to see who was holding his takeout - albeit haphazardly. There was an awful lot for both him and his long time friend Rachel Bloom and as per tradition Sunday evening was devoted to Japanese takeout and either Rachel's latest anime addiction, or when it was Toby's turn to acquire the DVD and Rachel's turn to foot the usually hefty bill for the noodles it would be the latest Indie comedy, freshly acclaimed from Sundance.

A slim and petite student looked up at him, her cheeks nipped by the cold and her almond, hazel eyes gleaming parallel to the takeout bag she was holding high as if it was an accolade of some sort of waitressing award which Toby didn't know of. He quickly noticed she was wearing the mandatory red 'Wagamama Team' tee, but, bizarrely, on her it didn't look like a uniform more of a statement as if clung to her toned physique. A timid voice squeaked juxtaposed to the powerful stride her ASH trainers made across the now dusted floor,

"Mister Conroon?" she smiled, to which he replied,

"Conran, ac-ac-tually." He planned it to sound smooth and debonair but just managed to hide the obvious stutter behind chattering teeth as he rubbed his hands together.

"Oh, Saskia always talks about you." She gestured to a person behind Toby, a person who appeared to vanish as he swooned over his shoulder. "You must have paid, of course?"

"Absolutely," he noticed her cheeks were edging towards an unhealthy blue rather than the attractive rosy. No wonder, the snow was falling thick and fast – almost torrentially – "Come inside, you must be freezing and you don't even have a jacket." The young, possibly Eurasian student seemed to be shying away from her work responsibilities and appeared intent to avoid the eyes of the charismatic but demanding Maître'd.

"To be honest," she whispered mischievously, "I was dying to escape work. Trying to find you was just the escape I needed, I'm afraid my heart wasn't in it really, and we all thought you had left so you may need to microwave it when you get back to your dorm." Toby's eyes widened further.

"Won't you be in trouble?"

"No," she giggled "and besides they hardly noticed I was gone. I clock off soon after lunch anyway."

"How did you know I was a student?" he mused to which her cheeks reddened further.

"I've seen you on campus, I go to Oxford too."

"Oh," he chuckled "Do you want to-" quickly, almost automatically, she interrupted him.

"Sneak out? Hmm… you have an awful lot of food just for only one?" Toby's smile turned to a methodical albeit unfortunately, implausible one.

"I have a movie night which me and my friend organise but I can call her off." He stammered.

"Her?" her eyebrows arced.

"Oh it's nothing like that, we're only friends and have known each other for years… so?"

"Definitely." She handed the brown paper bag to him and headed out of the door once more. As the cold enveloped them both Toby barely managed to hear her gesturing to a nearby car, Toby couldn't even see his watch let alone a car down a side street but as his pace quickened to catch up with hers he realised, alas to late, that he didn't know this girl's name, how could a student afford to park their car in Oxford over the weekend – how many students could afford a car in the first place? And how many Wagamama workers don't have a PDA to track orders on a utility belt? He glanced down into the weightless brown bag – it was full of foil take out boxes, granted, but they were all empty. Saskia had messed up the order, that is if she even existed, a fact her very much doubted. He was now in the side street and she had drawn a gun…. Fade out.

***

**RACHEL **

Time: 14:32

Date: Sunday 15th November 2009

Locale: Dorms, St. Anne's College Campus, Oxford, England.

Status: Brief encounter…

Attire: Topshop, taupe, tiered, French lace, sheer dress, Wolford pea green stockings and Belstaff motorcycle boots.

Rachel Bloom's mane of red hair was being coiled around of her freckled fingers – her peaches and cream aesthetic of red hair and apple white skin complimented her fox-like features as the snow began to fall over half an hour ago. Leaving torturing her hair for the time being she looked down on her Ikea bedspread and sifted through the DVDs she had selected for the evening and the latest edition of Wallpaper magazine and grasped her clamshell mobile phone as if it were a life raft. Hastily she flipped over the cover and yet again appeared nonchalant at the realisation of no response to any of the 3 text messages she had sent to her long time friend Toby Conran. She hated cold udon and warm beer and a ball of fear formed in the pit of her stomach as she sat awaiting the nerves to form almost simultaneously. Her conscious mind screamed out to her unbiased; Toby was never late – something must have happened to prevent his almost, obsessive organisation skills – then again the weather was worsening, could she be bothered to go about Oxford in little more than a negligee when he was probably sidetracked?

She looked around her sparsely furnished, patterned cell. She had done what she could with it but there was only so many potted plants and Scandinavian furniture she could cram in alongside her mandatory computer, television and retro-cool Sega Megadrive. Rachel Bloom was a relaxed and easygoing English student with wit to spare but she craved company on a snowy Sunday when campus was full of snowball fights and loud music – where was he? She predictably, came to a forgone conclusion, if Toby was safe then she would eventually find him or vice versa while getting out and making something of the weekend after reading up for next week's lectures and if, perchance, he was fending off some culture vultures from the coffee house with his beloved bag then she could rescue him before the asparagus would lose its crunch. Swinging over her narrow shoulders a red military bib coat and fixing on her cascading, tumbling locks some ear muffs she got from a 1950s thrift store Rachel clomped out of the dormitory and into the day contradicting stereotypes with each step; despite her surname she was no wallflower.

Her cream Vespa wouldn't start – yet again. She had left the matching helmet inside anyways, along with her provisional licence, purse and keys, but she hadn't even remembered she had forgotten those. Her boots made great potholes within the whirring mass of snow which had blurred the lines between the pavement and the cobbled streets, she walked around the block ducking snowballs and resisting the urge to make a snow angel when she had realised she had been walking for over 20 minutes. Her ghetto-gold Casio said it was 15:15 and she had not spotted Toby anywhere, should she give him a final call? _Not that he would be able to hear it ring in this weather,_ she mused as the emptied the coat's pockets into a nearby bin and after a steady torrent of receipts, €0.24 and a rather worse for wear M&M she finally realised her phone, along with her keys and wallet was in her dorm. Various forms of the word '_Fuck._' Came tumbling out of her mouth right before a giddy group of fellow first year students; all looking equally pretentious in their Ralph Lauren slacks and deck shoes, she could tell they had already dismissed her as 'the weird chick' and couldn't give a damn. She was a better person than them, she didn't need a trust fund or a guaranteed place at Oxford to define who she was – Rachel Bloom defined Rachel Bloom. With an air of defiance she broke their gang and strode straight through like an 18 year old Boudicca – minus the axe and chariot of course. So intent on being decisive and finding her friend her foot caught on what could have been a wonky paving stone but in the mid afternoon light and current, hazardous weather conditions could have been anything from an animal to Toby himself, and as she careered around the corner she collapsed into the arms or rather the art folder of a bespectacled young woman. Dreadlocks cut into a bob framed her narrow and beautiful face, her mouth was curving into a smile as Rachel tried to stabilize herself despite her cheeks began to resemble the colour of her own unkempt hair.

"I am so sorry…" she fluttered dusting the clumps of snow of the tartan jeans the woman was wearing, 'Trust me to fall on a day like this." The unknown woman looked down into Rachel's slightly perplexed, hazel eyes filling her with a warmth, she had only ever felt once before.

"No worries," despite her tartan jeans, art folder crammed with tribal silkscreen prints and pixie boots the voice sounded almost regal but again warm. "Good job I was here to stop you."

"Well, thank you," Rachel panted despite the relatively short fall "Oh my gosh…. Wow… I love that bracelet" she pointed absentmindedly to a coarse bracelet of what appeared to be coral pink and burnt orange shell juxtaposed with shards of what appeared to be – mirror? It was almost as mesmerising as that accent.

"Actually it's an anklet" the woman soothed and she held out a hobo gloved hand, "I'm Lo-" she paused.

"Just Lo?" chuckled Rachel befuddled.

"Lola." She replied earnestly "After all that drama and as an artist, should we have a drink?" Lola removed a flask of what appeared to be brandy from her gargantuan art folder… Never to turn down alcohol Rachel happily obliged and took a polite swig.

She didn't know if it was the strength of the brandy, her previous clumsiness or just the difficult conditions but Rachel was asleep before 'Lola' steered her onto a nearby bench, hastily pocketed the flask and threw her glasses unceremoniously into the folder – Lois Habiba didn't wear glasses anyway.


End file.
